


Mage Touch

by AlyxStar



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3978754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyxStar/pseuds/AlyxStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris despises all forms of magic, and especially hates any kind being used on him.</p><p>Luckily Hawke is as stubborn as he is moody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age II (Bioware does). If I did do you seriously think it would take so long to rekindle romance with Fenris?
> 
> This was supposed to be a one-shot, but I've noticed that my recent spell of writing seems to have better luck with multiple chapters, especially if the fic idea has several parts to it.
> 
> Any feedback is appreciated.

Carrying Elfroot potions, an assortment of herbs and pastes, and medical kits was a habit she'd formed due to walking into _far_ too many of Athenril's jobs blind on the _important_ details and nearly losing Carver to ambushes and exhausted Mana as a result.

Amelie is eternally grateful for starting such a habit else Fenris would have died two times over during their treck through the Docks with Varric. She could understand his aversion to magic, really she could (from what little she'd heard of Tevinter Magisters she could guess they were _bad_ news), but that didn't make it any less frustrating when she had to scramble around dead bodies and skid helter skelter over pooling blood and melted ice to jam potions down his ungrateful throat before he bled to death.

Damned uncooperative _fool_ with those ridiculously pointed ears twitching away to every minute noise and his stupidly forest green eyes and lean muscle and deadly grace.

_Not so deadly when someone managed to skewer him in the freaking shoulder._

She scowls at his back (too annoyed by her own thoughts to be distracted by the thin stripe of flesh left bared by his armour... much), noting the very slight limp to his tread. Either he wasn't seriously wounded ( _now_ ) or he was doing a good job of hiding it. Probably the latter. She'd only met him a few weeks ago and already knew he was a stubborn git.

"You look like you want to burn holes into the back of his head, Hawke."

"Don't tempt me, Varric."

"Do you mean to tell me that you're _actually_ considering it? Flames, I need to jot this down for Junior!" He sounds so genuinely shocked that she looks down at him, grinning wide at the expression matching his tone.

"Let me guess, Carver has you believing _I'm_ the strict one with a tree shoved up my ass? Don't tell me you can't picture it." She holds her hands up, brackets her fingers in a square formation and frames a key part of the taciturn elf's body. " _The leather-clad posterior goes up in a brilliant explosion of flames, the owner squealing like a stuck pig and flapping around like a headless chicken in his desperate dash for water. He jumps butt first into the choppy sea, his attacker a looming shadow on the docks - a vengeful Mage with venom laced words and sharp wit, as dangerous as an enraged dragon._ " She can see the writer in him conjuring up the mental imagery, eyes twinkling with supressed amusement that speaks the volumes his voice doesn't. She'll have to get a copy of his next novel, Amelie decides, if for no other reason than to see if she'd need to demand shares for supplying him with a future hit of an idea.

She calls out to Fenris, throwing a wink at Varric before hurrying forward to catch up with the warrior before he could hit the stairs to Lowtown and disgrace himself trying to hobble up them. He has a trademark scowl stamped quite firmly across his face, hiding any other expression that might betray even a hint of pain. Amelie shoves a small, corked bottle at him without another word, right eyebrow arching high in the classic _'well?'_ look she'd inherited from her Mother.

"What is this?"

"Always the tone of suspicion, Fenris! How you _wound_ me, Serah. It's an Elfroot potion. For your leg."

"This is not -"

"We were ambushed by Sharps Highwaymen, twice. You were swarmed the first time and I _know_ a rogue went after you, you _went down_ the second time, and left over half of the potion I gave you untouched. You're limping, so drink. _Or_ ," she adds when his lips part again, "do I need to zap your ass with a healing spell? Don't think I won't just because you get hissy as a soaked cat about Mages and their misuse of power." He glowers at her and she stares right back, challenging. When she begins to think she'll need to follow through on her threat he pops the cork and throws back the bottle's contents like one might with the most foul and sour of tinctures. It won't do any good, she knows, and has the mildly vindictive satisfaction of watching his mouth pinch into a severe line as his nose scrunches in obvious distaste. There is one coughing splutter before he's back to glowering.

"Bitter isn't it? Elfroot potion's always a right kick to the teeth. But hey, at least you'll be able to bounce around like a drunk on happy 'shrooms in no time!" She breezes by him with an overly bright smile, stomping down the bite of offence as he shies away from the potential of an accidental bump as though she had deadly flames licking her skin. The stairs are taken two at a time and she pauses at the top to suck in a lungful of sea-tinted air. If she focused hard enough, she could almost miss the stench of wet dog and sewage ever present in the Docks. _Almost_.

He doesn't even hobble up a _single_ stair, whereas she'd need to hop or crawl. Elfroot potions didn't work _that_ fast.

_Tch. Show off._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And hey, I might as well accept prompts for this fic too, incase my brain stalls on ideas. Ever have a moment in the game where you wanted Hawke to use magic on Fenris? Ever have ideas of moments that would have been sweet to see in the game but Bioware left out? Any prompts for magic used on (or possibly against) Fenris, just let me know and I'll see what I can do :)


	2. Chapter 2

She's used magic for as long as she can remember. A little warmth to dry off Bethy's dress after they escaped the pelting rain of an unforgiving storm. Some melted blocks of ice in the bathtub and pots to replace the collected rainwater that a single day's scorching heat had managed to evaporate. A well placed bolt to shock some fish in the lake near their home (the third since the twins had been born) to supplement the bread and cheese Mama bargained for at the town market and the edible berries and fruit Daddy came across in his foraging for herbs. Small and harmless things, familiarising herself with the magic, learning her limits and capabilities with and without Daddy's guidance.

Daddy's death had been a massive blow and needing to flee Lothering a terrible shock that left her floundering. But to fail Bethy... to let her _die_... for a time she distances herself from her magic, turns her back on it and keeps it locked away in the farthest recesses of her being. She listens to Carver and Mother - what good is having the power to bend elemental forces if it didn't protect her little sister? She uses her daggers instead, falls back on the knowledge shared by the rogues and thieves she'd charmed during her teenage years with her willingness to help them flee undected from jobs gone wrong. She stalks the shadows thrown in Kirkwall by crowded buildings and persistent cloud cover, dispatches Athenril's competition quietly while Aveline and Carver keep them engaged in combat, distracted.

It works for a time, but the little bitch makes life more and more difficult as the months crawl by. The jobs are more demanding - to the point stealth is next to useless - the pay steadily drops, their medical supplies run low as a result and injuries go unchecked in favour of staying on the move (to stop is to die in the world of a smuggler) until it eventually happens. One of them fall, the very thing Amelie feared the most.

A slice to the calf is not necessarily life-threatening with a Circle's worth of healers in the city (bandage it up good and pay the ferryman for a quick trip to the Gallows and it would be sorted in no time) but they've been scrapping with the Red Irons on and off for _weeks_ and when Aveline calls out for cover, the eldest Hawke _loses it_. Amelie tosses her daggers down with a raw-throated yell, ignores Carver's hiss of alarm ( _have you gone mad?_ ) as she throws her arms up to the sky and stretches her fingers wide, flinging open the doors she'd barred shut between herself and the Fade. Her magic responds like an eager Mabari pup let into the house after a severe scolding for chewing the furniture, blowing from her palms in a rush of heat that arcs, materialises into physical form on the way down again.

Fire has always come naturally to her, the most unpredictable of the elements, her trusted collection of spells the most dangerous in terms of widespread destruction. Great balls of flame fall from the height of Lowtown's rooftops, painting the street in billowing tongues of orange and red and violent fury. They devour on impact with the mercenaries and explode outward, tearing through the paltry protection offered by leather armour. Her will alone keeps the spell from touching her companions, a fierce grin twisting her mouth into a mockery of her usual smile and her eyes reflecting the unholy light of vengeful fire. Amelie ignores the rebelling of her stomach against the stench of burning flesh and agonised screams, gathers the lingering flames to her like the comfort of a lover's embrace. Fingers flick outward and the fire follows, grasping a half dozen of them in burning fists bound by her fancy. They plead for mercy and for a quick death. She gives them neither.

And when Carver hauls Aveline back to the barracks while Amelie stalks to their employer's favoured hideout, the few Red Irons left in one piece return to Meeran with their tails between their legs and their blistered, blackened flesh an unspoken warning: **Don't fuck with the Hawkes**.

* * *

"Why?"

"I paid for an _Apostate's _entrance to the city, not some loud-mouthed Fereldan with a knack for fancy dagger-twirls."__

"You _bitch_. You set us up!"

"Don't look so shocked, Hawke. Your pockets are lined with coin, your family is safe for another week, and I have my Apostate back in the game. You know how this works."

Oh how she longs for the day of freedom, just so she could enjoy smashing Athenril's face in and wiping the floor with that smug fucking smirk.

* * *

After that incident she takes up her magic again - all but trembling every time it tingles through her veins - painfully aware of how empty and lost she'd felt while ignoring its soothing lullaby. The world is not gentle with Mages, however, and Kirkwall might as well have been Templar capital for how many patrolled the streets. She keeps her spells under tight control, having no desire to ruin her chance at freedom with the year's contract drawing ever closer to its expiry date. Outside she is the shadow Hawke whirling around the battering ram of her younger brother with lethal precision, but when the doors close and the fight is taken inside she becomes the eye of the storm. She deals death, then, with such single-minded _intensity_ that the few who survive her spells speak of the witch with the signature red smear in hushed tones quickly silenced around Templars.

She commands their fear in her rare displays of mercy, threatens them with frost-touched fingers and piercing sea-blue eyes, warns them that should the Mage-killers learn of her identity she will turn their homes to rubble when she next comes calling.

Even with the terrified promises of anonymity she takes no chances - not with the lives of her family - and so leaves glyphs of warding and paralysis carefully hidden around Gamlen's house. They wouldn't halt a Templar assault, but they would delay it long enough for a hasty escape down the back alleys without an immediate pursuit.

* * *

Then her path collides with an angry, escaped slave and all her subtle ways of casting go up in flames. Figuratively speaking.

He was a Maker-damned walking, talking magic-sensor and quite negatively opinionated on it to boot, glowering so strongly after their latest blood bath that it's a wonder lightning bolts didn't shoot from his eyes and fry her on the spot. Those haunting, lovely eyes, expressive where face and voice are not.

He scowls at her - quite frankly - _wonderful_ display of magical prowess and she sticks her tongue out at him.

He stalks away, muttering in Tevene, and she throws his back the middle finger.

Skinny elf _bastard_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention that my Hawke is a mix of all three colours (blue/purple/red). She's mostly blue/diplomatic, but there is a lot purple/sass/snark thrown in, and she has moments of red/confrontational when faced with people intent on harming her companions or herself. It is these people she threatens, not the general populace of Kirkwall.


	3. Chapter 3

Any outings from Kirkwall were met with varying reactions. Aveline usually wasn't free for them given her new position as Guard Captain; Varric suffered through them with minimal grousing and a head full of ideas for his current works; Isabela, the newest addition to their merry little band, could be lured with the promise of free drinks for a week and first call on any loot; Fenris didn't seem to have an opinion either way, but she'd glimpsed his tiny smiles and his toes curling in the sand enough times to gather he was fond of the Wounded Coast; Anders (understandably) was glad to get beyond the city walls; and Carver... well, there was just no pleasing  _him._

* * *

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh **fuck!**_

She should have listened to Carver, she shouldn't have agreed to stick her nose into Templar business, especially not the kind involving _Cullen_ of all people.

She squawks and ducks under the inky claws swiping for her face, dropping into a sideways roll to get out of the Shade's immediate range, only to bounce back up in front of the grotesque body of _another_ Abomination. An oath falls from her lips as she activates the fire runes along the blades of her favoured daggers, mentally cursing the need to restrain her magic. _It would be so much easier_ , she thinks, _to dispatch these bastards if I could just use a spell or two to freeze them in place_. She buries both weapons to the hilt in the Abomination's face, twists viciously as she dodges scalding hands attempting to push her aside. Its wretched scream echoes sharp in her ears as she plants her foot roughly where a human midsection would be and _shoves_ it from impalement. As expected, Bianca's familiar clunk-twang sounds just before a bolt lodges dead centre of the creature's forehead, but as much as she would enjoy a moment's respite there are _far_ too many Shades swarming around Carver.

* * *

"Andraste's flaming knickers, where do you lot keep coming from?!"

"I _told_ you we should have left this to the Templars."

"Oh cork it, Carver!" How many had they killed now? She'd lost count after the sixth managed to hook her in the chest - the bleeding wasn't so bad, but given that breathing was like inhaling fire she was certain at least two ribs had broken - and more just kept coming. If it kept up they were in serious trouble, even more so after Varric's warning call that he was running low on bolts.

"If we run, do you think they'll follow?"

"Do I _think_? Have you learned _nothing_ about -"

"Hawke." Deep gravel, surprisingly quiet compared to the overloud shrieks of bested Shades and her brother's yelling. She can't afford to look for Fenris, but judging by the frequency of exploding particles and the spatters of what she presumes is blood in her peripheral vision, he's somewhere behind her, nearby. "Hawke, use your magic. The Knight-Captain has fallen."

**"What?"**

"Oh shit."

Quite frankly she agrees with them, but alarm at such knowledge takes a backseat to unspeakable relief and she lets the magic run free from where it's been boiling since Wilmod transformed. In a matter of minutes the air has thinned under the sudden pressure of a contained storm, booming thunderclaps momentarily deafening her as white-hot lightning arcs from her fingertips and sends stray sparks up her arms, dancing in lethal strikes between targets. Those already weakened by blows from either greatsword disintegrate on contact while the others are merely stunned. Already drained from physical exertion it takes more willpower than she'd admit to to keep her Mana-flow steady and the spell under control, random bolts breaking off without warning and scorching whatever they touched, putting Carver and Fenris at risk as they dart between the remaining foes to hack at them until they collapse into piles of ash and gloop. One final _push_ and it's over, and although her ass meets the ground with a bone-jarring thud when her legs give out, being off her feet has never felt so good.

* * *

Carver and Varric escort Cullen - sporting a rather nasty lump on the rear of his head - back to the city walls, allowing Fenris and she the privacy needed from a Silence-happy Templar for healing to take place. He, as usual, refuses the aid of her magic (even to heal the burns she'd accidentally inflicted with her chain of lightning strikes) in favour of applying a generous coating of salve to the blistered flesh instead.

"That was a rather odd injury the Knight-Captain had, wouldn't you say?" She eyes him closely with the casual remark, suspicious. Varric was usually the first to spot friendly casualties from the higher vantage points he took, to pick off individuals with well-placed bolts; that he hadn't, and Fenris had been the one to notify them of it instead while mentioning a tactical advantage was quite... coincidental.

He pauses, fixes her with a stare that could turn an Ogre to ice, and she internally winces. Still not fond of her observant ways, then.

"We were outnumbered and unprepared. Your magic was a tide-turner we needed, Hawke, and you are of no use to any of us if you are confined to the Gallows."

"So you _struck the Knight-Captain_?" He bristles at her tone, returns the salve tub with more force than necessary, dragging a hiss of pain as his hand connects with the still-tender spot where ribs had snapped.

"I- wait!" She scrambles after him when he makes for the path Varric and Carver had taken with Cullen, barely remembering to stop herself before she could actually touch him in her effort to make him pause. To Fenris' credit the lyrium markings don't ignite at the close proximity of her hand to his burned arm, but the charge in the atmosphere says that it is a close thing indeed.

"I didn't mean it like - that is to say, I'm not accusing you of -" _stop, Amelie. Take a breath. Start over._ "-... Thank you, Fenris. I know it must be difficult to trust me, and with good reason." She indicates the large blisters, chewing on her bottom lip in an unconscious habit of ill-voiced regret. "And it would probably save you a dozen headaches to just turn me over to the Templars so... thank you, really, for... for keeping my secret." Her smile is a hesitant thing, one he doesn't return, but at least his tense stance relaxes somewhat. Her gratitude runs deeper than he likely realises; of everyone she's met in Kirkwall he perhaps has the most reason to declare her to the Templars. That he hadn't taken advantage of a prime opportunity to do so... it's a massive weight removed from her shoulders, knowing her blooming trust in him is not misplaced.

"We should head back."

"Yeah... Here, you need it more than I do. I have magic to care for my injuries, but if those burns aren't cared for properly, you could have a nasty infection to deal with." She holds the salve out to him while she speaks, hoping he'll take it and that she won't have to stick Anders on his case later. He simply stares at her offering for a few moments, before reclaiming the tub and dropping it into one of the pouches tied to his belt. Amelie beams, and spins back in Kirkwall's general direction with a clap of her hands. "Right then! Let's get back home. With any luck I'll be in time to stop Varric refreshing the rumour mill."

"I imagine you would have better luck convincing Carver to wear an Orlesian ball gown."

She ends up in a fit of recurring giggles all the way back to the city.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllllloooooooooo, I am still alive. My apologies for the lengthy delay in any updates, as I've been quite busy with work and personal life. Thank you to everyone who has left comments on my writings since my last activity on here, and apologies for this chapter. I have absolutely no experience writing anything even remotely resembling a fight of any sort XD I suppose I'll get better the more I try it.

Anders' warning comes too late, _far_ too late.  By the time he senses the corruption and calls out to duck, the ambush has been launched.   But more shocking than _so many appearing from every direction_  is the storm of magic that envelopes them as soon as the first arrow whistles by Carver's ear,  **fury** clear as the noonday sun on the elder Hawke's face when he glances at her, white-hot fire lashing from her outstretched hand in great tongues, setting grotesque skin alight as the bladed end of her staff sinks into the neck of one of the shorter creatures attempting to flank her.  It makes the fine hair at the nape of his neck stand on end, her magic, an immense pressure battering against his body and electrifying his blood in equal measure.  Where Danarius' magic had been controlled and practised, honed to a deadly sharp talon that would rip one apart from the inside out with but a flick of his finger, Hawke's is a wild and untamed thing, all heat and lightning bursting in blue showers against rock and tree alike.  He instinctively flinches away from the magic as it hurtles in chaos around him, almost a  _physical_ force, but not once do her spells touch him.  There is no time to ponder the way a swivel of her wrist can send magic whirling  _around_ and not _through_ him, throwing himself aside just in time to avoid an axe to the skull.  Snarl baring elf-sharp teeth, he plants his feet and  _swings_ in retaliation as sickly yellow eyes refocus on him, carving the creature from sternum to groin. There is no time to think of  _anything_ beyond dodge and attack, swivelling this way and that to avoid being backed up against one of the rock outcroppings as they swarm Carver and he.

The first tremor, when it happens, is so sudden that he trips, stumbles, has to catch himself by using his sword as a crutch.  Then another, and another, and another, so fast that it can only be the tread of a  _very_ large creature and for a horrifying moment he thinks that one of the two Mages have summoned a demon to the fray.  The Darkspawn that remain scatter in all directions, chittering and clacking among themselves, regrouping at a distance... a safe distance... he turns in the direction of the heavy footfalls.  The thing is toweringly large as it ambles into sight, easily the same size as a Pride demon, and just as much of a threat.  It swings its horned head, and even though he cannot see its eyes (if it even has any) he  _knows_ it chooses him, just by the way the massive form angles towards him, another stomp forward taken before it folds nearly in half, trunk-thick arms tucking in close to the body.  There is no challenging bellow, only a change in gait and then he is being  _charged_ , too slow to scramble back to safety, unable to clamber over the outcroppings without the very real risk of being caught on those horns or being plucked clean off the ground and thrown like a ragdoll.  The lyrium brands blaze white, igniting unnatural strength in his limbs, even as a  **shriek** of defiance cuts through the sudden tunnel vision.  It is unmistakably Hawke, for the pitch is too high to have come from either of the other two, but he cannot tear his eyes away from certain death.  A cold blast of air nips at his ear in passing, chills the strip of flesh his armour leaves bare, and in the space of his next blink there is ice layered over the creature's face and spears fashioned from it punching ineffective holes into the body.  Not nearly enough to stop it, but distraction is better than nothing and Fenris springs forward at the same time Carver calls out, alarmed, "Amelie!"

* * *

 The smell of Darkspawn all but clings to his armour, wrinkling his nose in obvious disgust as steel-clad fingers tug unsuccessfully at the breastplate as though any such movement will help alleviate the  _stench_.  Twisted things, Darkspawn, that should never have had the opportunity to step foot in the world, soulless and  _wretched_  and wholly wrong.  Even their blood was wrong, black and foul as rotten flesh and that was leaving aside the fact it could kill other creatures if absorbed into the body.  Avoiding it is certainly a challenge given his preferred weapon tends to send sprays of it up at a time, but twisting his face away moments after making a solid connection, shielding his face, had certainly helped.

Still, the blood is foul beyond comparison, with a tar-like consistency that renders cleaning his blade a nuisance of a task.  One he looks up from when Carver moves, shifting in the slow, measured pace of someone with muscles protesting from extended stillness.  It is almost endearing, how he lingers by his sister's side like an overprotective mabari hound with a litter of pups.  But Hawke's collapse shortly after the creature's - the Ogre's - fall is not something to take lightly, if Anders' anxious pacing and worried glances are anything to judge by.  He has heard of such things, of course, Danarius was always fond of passing remarks on those with magic who would fail to become Magisters, too weak to control the magic, over-exerting themselves, draining themselves dry to the point of death with seemingly mundane spells.  But hearing of something and having the proof of a vulnerability in Mages laid out before his eyes... is certainly a different experience.  Hawke looks better for Anders having cleaned her face of the blood that had flown from her nose and the accumulated dirt from the fight, but there is nothing to be done about the bruise-like shadows under her eyes and the lack of colour to her face, the stillness, the lack of response to Carver's several attempts at rousing her.  She could easily be mistaken for dead, but her body still breathed and Anders' healing magic still soaked into her body rather than vanish with the suddenness of a snuffed candle. _  
_

Magic exhaustion.  As real a threat to Mages as demons.  But as much as such knowledge is a relief, in their current predicament it is nothing but a hindrance.  Anders - from what he has observed - does not have a flair for the destructive qualities of Hawke's magic, and Carver would be too focused on protecting his sister from further harm to be much help in another fight.  They were stuck here until she recovered, or could at least walk.

_At least we have the Iron Bark._

* * *

"Why?"

"Why what?"

He levels Carver with  _a look_ , gesturing with an irritated jab where the elder Hawke still rests, oblivious to the worsening weather and growing threat of needing to relocate to avoid it.

"She could have killed herself in the process of keeping that Ogre preoccupied.  Why?"

"... Bethany.  We... ran into an Ogre when we fled Lothering."

_And there are only two Hawke siblings in Kirkwall._

"I see..."  He genuinely does.  Grief twists the face seemingly always arranged in a scowl, saddens blue eyes before Carver is twisting away with an annoyed noise in the back of his throat.  "I am sorry for your loss."  Broad shoulders hunch upward, eyes flicking at the movement down below to see hands bunching into fists and relaxing again several times.  In typical Carver fashion there should have been a caustic remark, a defence mechanism, but there is no retort to be had.  Only a long pause and deep intake of breath before he's stomping off to speak with Anders.

And still Hawke does not stir.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is... not the best chapter by any means. I am severely rusty in my writing x.x

He meets Leandra Hawke exactly one month after Hawke stumbled out of that house in the Alienage. He knows this because Hawke's group only meet once a month for a game of Wicked Grace, or so Varric tells him, and her sudden offer upsets that arrangement.

* * *

 The two knocks and drum of fingers on his door that mark Amelie visiting for his aid comes later than her usual time. The sun is already high and hot in the sky, rendering the city streets sticky and uncomfortable to walk around. She usually appears after his morning forms, when the sun is weak and the air cool, Kirkwall still mostly cloaked in shadows. But not today, and he outright _stares_ at her when she extends her offer.

"You want me to come to dinner. With your family. Tonight.”

"Well, my mother put the invitation across, but I wouldn’t mind your company. It’s a little thing we do, and you wouldn’t be alone! Varric’s coming, too.”

"But _why_?”

"You would need to ask my Mother that, I’m afraid.”

Why Hawke’s mother would want a penniless _elf_ in her house is – beyond his range of understanding. If it would be safe, a valid concern. What if it was some kind of trick? Had he done anything to anger Hawke? Was her temper bubbling in the background, unseen but _lethal_? Was she going to tie up loose ends now that he had run out of use? But if he refused, he could anger her further...

"I will… consider it.”

“Oh! Okay, great! We don’t have dinner until around sundown anyway when Uncle eventually drags his sorry ass back home, just pop by later if you want to tag along!” And off she goes with a cheerful smile and a skip to her step, leaving him still half hidden behind the door, hand slowly easing away from his greatsword, squinting against the harsh glare of sunlight until she can no longer be seen. Only then does he close the door and retreat to the room he’s chosen for himself, clean of dead bodies and most of the dust, and there he stays, weighing up his options.

But he is nowhere closer to understanding her motives almost an hour later, heading down to the cellar to fetch a bottle of wine before going in search of Varric. Perhaps the dwarf could shed some light on the irritating conundrum, where his threat of a headache fails.

* * *

Fenris has never met Hawke’s Uncle in person before, only caught glimpses of him in passing while accompanying her through Lowtown. He decides almost instantly that the lack of familiarity is a good thing when the human opens the door, takes one look at him, and sneers as though he’d just stepped in a puddle of piss.

“Girl, one of your _strays_ is here.”

“Gamlen!” An older woman’s voice, sharp with reproach.

“Can you go a day without insulting the people I work with?”

" _Work_ , hah!” Before more can be said – and it is clear more _is_ going to be said – Hawke appears, shouldering the man she couldn’t possibly be related to out of the way. One cheek, he notices, dimples when she smiles.

"Fenris! I’m glad you decided to come. Come in, come in, make yourself at home. We’re still waiting on Varric - I swear he’d be late to his own funeral. It’s a bit bare but, well, a roof over the head is better than nothing I guess. Take a seat, Mother will be out to greet you in a minute.” She also chatters when nervous, apparently. There are two doors (and bare is an underestimation by anyone’s standards), and she slips through the one on the right, wafting the scent of chicken and herbs with the motion of the door. The table in the centre is not large enough to sit six people, especially not if one of those people was going to be Carver, and he’s left wondering how this arrangement is going to be settled even as he takes a seat on one of the chairs, perched on the edge and angled so that he can dive aside at a moment’s notice. _Shouldn’t have left the greatsword_.

 **Mother** is a straight-backed woman who looks very much like an older version of Hawke, as impossible as such a thing should be, lines on her brow and around her mouth from stern frowns and worry and a head of grey hair pulled into a bun high on her head. Errant strands are swept back from her face with thin hands as she bustles out of the room her daughter just entered, and the crinkles around her eyes (misty grey in comparison to Hawke’s blue) deepen with her momentary smile. One hand stretches out to him, but she aborts the extension of her arm before it can be completed, drawing both into a clasp at her chest for a moment with a hum, looking conflicted, gaze darting to the other room and back. He feels an eyebrow inch upward in silent question, though he does not give voice to it, more relieved that the issue of contact is not pressed than he is curious as to what conversation must have taken place before his arrival.

“You must be Fenris.” Her smile is not Hawke’s or Carver’s – too thin-lipped and fleeting – but it is a genuine one and he relaxes minutely. Leandra is no threat, there is no magic in her to make the lyrium itch, nor is she a warrior. Easy to overpower, to escape. “I hope you’re hungry, we have plenty of soup and stew to go around.”

There is an irate noise from Gamlen, one that has Fenris’ ears twitching in his direction to detect the smaller movements, hints of motion, of intent. He does not like this man, nor the way Leandra’s face collapses into an expression of tired resignation as he makes an excuse and takes his leave. Leaving some room at the table for later, then. She covers it well, though, summoning another smile and asking if he prefers extra seasoning or not. Most likely (Ferelden dishes were known to be rather bland), and upon answer he presents her with the wine. She laughs, which puzzles him, but accepts it all the same and calls for Amelie to hunt out the mugs that have survived Gamlen's drunken carelessness and Carver's tempers.

* * *

The youngest Hawke does not join them, either, and though Varric eventually arriving brings with it a flow of banter and stories of Amelie’s childhood (much to her dismay and grumbled complaints), it is clear that the family absence weighs on Leandra. But noticing that her untouched stew is presented to him in a covered dish later is not his concern, he knows better than to give voice to any matter relating to family business. So he accepts the gift with a quiet murmur of thanks and a promise to eat it for lunch the following day, lyrium searing moments later as warmth laps at his back, quickly shying away from the brush of magic in time to see Hawke’s hands glowing a faint red and settling a worn blanket around her mother’s shoulders, a kiss to her cheek. Family business is not his concern, and Varric is tactful enough to keep quiet on such subjects as well, when he and Hawke take to accompanying Fenris back to Danarius’ mansion. But the use of magic is noted, and he will inquire about it later. He needs to know. He needs to know _why_.


	6. Chapter 6

He paces the city perimeter for the better part of an hour, restless, the fury which had ignited since encountering the slavers sent to recover him still a wildfire in his veins that threatens to set the lyrium brands into bright pulses up and down his body.  It takes more concentration than he would admit to keep them from flaring and they rebel against him in turn, growing tight and painfully hot through his skin and around his bones with every second or third step he takes.  There is blood on his armour still, the blood of slavers and spiders, undead dust and  _Hadriana_ _'s presence._   He will never be rid of it.  Yet... some of the blood is  _hers_.  She is  _dead_ and with her, some of his torment should have eased.

But the hatred still lingers, a thick, stifling thing he would love nothing more than to be rid of.  Perhaps if he was to try phasing into his own chest he would be able to grasp it and rip it free, damage to his body be damned.  Hatred that renders his words as cutting as the heavy blade he wields, unforgiving in their punishment and cruelty, undeserved words he had turned on Hawke, spit at her as poison and accusation.  If it had been Anders, perhaps even Merrill, there would have been some dark delight at the flash of hurt across the face, lingering in eyes that fluttered downcast before he had taken his leave.  But it had been  _Hawke_ , and he felt wretched for it.  A sigh heaves from his chest as he turns for Hightown, aware that hastily wrapped wounds will need a more critical eye cast over them and proper treatment now that he is away from immediate danger.  And after that, an apology, if he can only find the right words for it.

* * *

 _Warm_.  It breaks through whatever has fallen over him, whatever has moved him to reverse their positions and trap her to the wall, one hand at her ribs and the other buried in dark hair falling down her back in damp waves.  The intake of breath is sudden, just shy of pained, breaking from the kiss she started and the sweetness of fresh raspberry on her lips to glance downward, surprised.  She is touching him and the _lyrium is not protesting the contact_ , even though her palm rests directly over where a dagger had sliced.  The wound is not deep, but it hurts with the contact, something he cannot hide fast enough with her so close and watching him.  Brows drawn into a frown, she follows his gaze and pulls her hand back - he wants to protest the removal of heat - and a noise of distress sounds in her throat when her fingers come away with specks of blood on them.

" _Fenris_.  You didn't tell me you were hurt!  Here, come sit.  Let me look."  She pulls at him, gentle hands insistent on his wrists.  He could pull free if he desired, phase out of her grip and flit from the house with no hope of her catching him, but he finds that he does not want to, curious instead as to what she will do, wants instead to sample the taste still lingering  from the snack he had distracted her from with his noisy entrance to her estate.  So he sits on the bench she directs him to, watches in silence as she drops to her knees before him and determines where her hand had been resting, where his injury is, probes.  Fenris assumes she means to be gentle, but contact with the area feels more like she'd jabbed a hot poker into his flesh, wincing without quite meaning to, earning a murmured apology and a withdrawal of the offending digits.  He sees determined fire in her eyes when she meets his gaze again, jaw in the familiar set he knows will brook no nonsense, usually only reserved for Carver in one of his more caustic moods.

"I need to see this wound, Fenris, please."  And there is the difference he always notices but she does not.  She  _asks_ for contact with his bare skin, while others do not.  Even Anders assumes consent is automatically given when there is an injury to be cleaned and dressed by a healer, irritating the lyrium into defence, opposing his magic and blocking its effects.  But Hawke is not Anders, and so he lifts the shirt after a moment's hesitation, feeling the rare flood of heat to his cheeks both Varric and Merrill have teased him of previously.  If Hawke notices she does not comment, instead carefully removing the dressing he had applied, tutting quietly when she can see the wound and lays her fingers on the surrounding area.  Which hurts.  "I don't know nearly as much as Anders does when it comes to injuries, but I'm pretty sure an infection shouldn't be setting in so  _quickly_.  Have you been feeling out of sorts since - since the caves?  Temperature, dizziness, uncoordinated limbs?  Anything to indicate the use of poison?"

"No, I have been well."  Aside from the boiling hatred conjured at the mere thought of - no.  Hadriana and her torment were gone.  Instead there is Hawke, and gentleness, and warmth he suspects comes from her affinity with fire magic in particular.  Whatever she says in response falls discarded to the floor as knees come down in front of her, steel-clad hand coming up to catch her chin, keep her as he slants his mouth over hers, none of the previous rush to be found, only softness and a hesitant question she answers when pressure is returned and hands slide over his ribs.  Much more careful now that she is aware of at least one wound - and the catching of his shirt on the raw edges is negligible for  _this_ , whatever this is - but she makes a noise of protest, draws back just enough that her breath flutters over his mouth.  "Hawke -"

"No, no, you're injured.  Give me a moment, please."  So he does, cursing that he cannot smooth his thumb over her cheek and the scars there without possibly scratching her skin, resigning himself to cupping her cheek instead.  And there's the warmth again, on his palm this time, as welcome as summer's sun after Kirkwall's bitter cold winters. "I can fix this, I'm pretty sure.  I used to patch up the twins all the time when we were younger.  Will you allow me to use healing magic on you, Fenris?"

Will he?  He has not had healing from a Mage in... years.  Not since his escape, and healing before that had been a painful business, like barbed hooks being pulled from his skin, dragging protests and cries from his throat even though it had angered Danarius and led to restricted meals, a torment on its own when he was left shaking and weak.

"Fenris?"

"... Yes.  You may use healing magic."   _I trust you_.

* * *

She takes him to her chambers - and for a moment he panics, too  _similar_ , much too - but she does not take him to the bed, a notion that halts his breathing and prickles cold sweat on his skin, but to the fire, pulling a blanket and cushions from the sofa and arranging them on the floor close to where carefully tended flames crackle and ward away evening's breeze from the open window, heavy curtains drawn shut.  She urges him to lie down on his back, head propped on a cushion, stretched out on the blanket, shirt carefully teased from the wound and folded upward out of the way.  Hawke kneels beside him, fingers close but not touching, eyes not quite focused.  Another Mage, and that would worry him, but he's come to learn that an unfocused gaze typically means she is concentrating on visualising the desired effect of her magic.  It is all the warning he will get, he knows, and so braces for it.   _Sometimes you must get worse to get better_.

" _Oh!_ "  He cannot help the outburst, jerking in surprise before he can lock down his muscles and keep still like always instructed previously, eyes going wide when the spell reaches for him.  And it  _does_ reach, not like the sudden impact he had grown used to.  What isn't air but doesn't quite hold substance either settles on his left side with a cool brush, ghosting over his skin until it reaches his injury, pulling a shiver up his entire spine as it  _dips_ into the tear and remains there, a gentle pulse that soothes the ache he's been harbouring since just after noon, and then an itch starts, the kind of small nagging that makes him want to claw at his skin until it abates, fighting the urge to squirm away from the odd sensation.  It is...  _wrong_.  Where is the pain?  It is not  _normal_.  But Hawke is calm, hands held a respectful distance from him rather than clamp cruelly where he is most sensitive, a blue-white glow enveloping them, eyes on her work.  He doesn't look, doesn't  _need_ to look, to know that torn flesh is being knit together under the spell but there is also the sensation of something... being  _pulled_ from the area.  The infection?

It spreads, balm to bruises and scrapes yet to properly announce their presence, the ache in his shoulder from too much tension, the throb in his ankle from when he'd rolled it during one of the day's fights, pain in his  _skin_ from calling on the abilities granted by the lyrium so often in such a short period of time.  Countless hurts, swept from his body with gentle coaxing.

 _It doesn't hurt_.

* * *

Her laugh is a breathless thing when he growls in frustration, drawing away only far enough that he can pull at the bindings and rip the gauntlets from his hands, returning when free of them to cup her face as he had wanted to earlier, thumb stroking along her cheekbone, learning how the scarring feels to touch.  Why he even bothered with _part_ of his armour and not all of it, he cannot remember. She says his name, voice low and throaty, fingers skating up his arm to halt at his collarbone, dipping under fabric to play against bare skin, follow the curls of lyrium there.  Her touch draws forth spark of light from the brands, darting along the path her fingertip takes, but the curiosity that brightens her eyes is not malicious, nor does it keep her interest for long, touch moving up again to fasten behind his neck and pull him down for a kiss.  Who is he to resist such a clear, unspoken demand?

" _Hawke_."  He wants, oh how he  _wants_ , so much that he doesn't even know where to start.  Only knows that in the chaos of it, it's all to do with  _her_.   _Amelie_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to remind my readers, before anyone gets upset at the prospect of Hawke using magic on Fenris during a time he's been through the emotional wringer and on THAT night:
> 
> In my canon, Fenris trusts Hawke by this point, and they DO NOT have sex the same night they first kiss. Does not happen.
> 
> By the time they confront Hadriana, Fenris has been fighting alongside Hawke for 3+ years and he's used to her magic and how she keeps it under tight control for her companions so as to avoid causing harm. He's learned to trust her, both as just a person, and as a Mage. Of the DA2 crew, she's the one he's most likely to trust to use magic on him. So instead of that night being all fiery, passionate sex, it's slow exploration and pleasure and further strengthening of the trust between them and realisation that magic and pain don't always go hand in hand.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating upped for the end of this chapter, and I feel I should note here that I won't be following the exact DA:II timeline.

Every night, no matter if it is just after sundown or three hours after the toll of a new day, he is glad, so fiercely _glad,_ that he is not a Mage. The nightmares are terrible, haunting enough without demons making false promises to possess him and ripping the worst fears from his thoughts, giving them form and substance to torture him all over again.

For a time he is given respite from them, on the nights he spends at the Hawke estate, guarded against howling wind and bitter cold rain when he curls up in the _pile_ of blankets she fetches from the chest at the foot of her bed. She bickers with him on those nights, insisting that guests should sleep on a _bed_ and not the floor, lay their heads on proper pillows and not cushions stolen from sofas. But to lie in the bed of a Mage would be too close to what had happened _before_ and he cannot allow it, does not want her to see the panic in his eyes that wells in his chest and makes his heart hammer **bambambambam** into his ribs. The book he practices reading with is either left on the table beside half-finished wine, or tucked between letters on her writing desk in the study where it will be safe from Shadow’s curious nose and foul drool. He does not know why the nightmares remain on the peripheral of his sleeping hours while in Hawke’s company, even when the air between them is tense and strained from his flight, but he is grateful for the respite. Forever thankful for her bright eyes and easy smile and endless welcome. Anyone else would turn him away after running like a coward, afraid of what the memories meant, afraid of another touch bringing the flood back and sweeping him out to sea. But Amelie is not anyone else, and when the ghosts in his mansion are too great, the crackling hearth in her chambers and the towering collection of books in her library beckon and she does not deny him entry.

They come back with a vengeance the same night he swallows his pride and asks her forgiveness, the same night she smiles and plucks the red fabric from around his wrist, tips her head up for a kiss he returns as he presses her back against a wall with hitched breath and a chest-deep groan. He wakes in cold sweat, lyrium bathing her chambers in bright light as it pulses blue and white over his skin, setting the brands on fire while he sucks in air still scented with _her_ and sex. Panic erodes away sense, frantic as he wrenches away from the arm thrown over his waist, falls to the floor when the sheets tangle around his legs. _No no no stay back don’t come closer_ , twisting on the floor with vicious noises, fabric tearing under the desperate pull of his hands. He can feel the dark taint of magic slithering through his brands and bending his body to his Master’s will, stilling him as lashes open up on his back, laughter and delight from those watching while he bites back the screams of pain because Master has ordered _silence._ But the hand that falls on his shoulder is too small, palm too calloused, the voice too _gentle_ and feminine. The same grip after Hadriana, the same question, only this time he doesn’t snap back, instead lifts onto all fours and closes his eyes against the visible shaking of his arms, the gathering of tears on lashes. It’s over.

_But it’s not. Danarius is still out there. You will never be free._

“Fenris…” He looks up, horrified by the wobble in her voice, even more so when he sees her own eyes wet with unshed tears. _Amelie,_ grasping one of his hands and slipping her fingers between his own, holding tight, the soft swell of her magic over his skin, a warm rush up his arm that he wouldn’t notice if he weren’t so cold.

“Hawke. Amelie, I –” _I’m afraid_. But he cannot bring himself to say it, cannot admit to weakness, not now, not yet. She hushes him, urges him to shift, pressing up against him from shoulder to hip, holding his hand between their chests and sliding her other around his back, fisted against a shoulder blade and warm breath dancing over the shell of his ear. Another pulse of her magic, unwinding warm and welcome through his brands, loosening the tight clench they have in his skin. He shudders, exhale a shaky thing, dropping his head to bury his face in the crook of her neck and allowing his free arm to creep around her waist.

“I’m here, Fenris.”

* * *

She is so pale amidst the green bedding – he’d helped Orana strip away the red, too similar to her blood for his nerves to handle – silent, too. She’d be lifeless if it wasn’t for the slow, if somewhat laboured, breathing. He remains by her bedside for three days, alternating watch with Carver for when he has to take care of his own needs, though eating is little more than the dishes of crackers, fruit, and cheese that Bodhan brings. Familiar faces wander outside on rotation, called in by the favours owed to Varric and the lure of good coin and, for some of them, repayment for Hawke saving their lives. Lookouts for trouble… or Templars. Those three days are filled with nightmares both waking and sleeping, remembrance of the choked cry when metal had found home just beneath her ribcage, punching straight through her as easily as his own fist would if he were to phase, the staff falling from her fingers and lightning arcing when she laid her hands on the instrument of her brush with death, sending all that _power_ sealed in her veins lancing to the hulking Qunari, shocking him until his body convulsed and she was flung from the blade of his weapon. She’d briefly found her feet again, hands lifting away from the wound and for one moment Fenris had – stupidly – thought that would be the tide turner, that she would finally resort to using blood magic. But no. Fire to blind him and chunks of stone torn from the stairs leading to an empty throne, slamming again and again and again into a horned head, distraction as he’d charged, throwing him off course, until with a note of finality a dagger shot out and opened a wide grin in his throat. In the nightmares Hawke falls, and even when rushed to Anders and his… passenger… she doesn’t wake up, doesn’t smile or laugh again. Bleeds out on the table instead, one tiny rattling breath and then **gone.** Each time he jerks awake, heart hammering, scrambles over just to _make sure_ her chest still rises, hunts for the weak pulse at her throat, holds his hand over her mouth just to feel the gust of breath on his palm.

Later, when she is a safe distance from death’s front door and is talking again, propped up by pillows and grousing at Anders’ strict instruction to remain confined to the bed for all but basic necessity, she is _shockingly_ frail compared to what Fenris remembers. He reads to her then, haltingly and still stumbling over the more complex words with the silent letters, because she asks, and she helps him when his ire spikes, head resting on his shoulder and lips quirked up into a permanent smile. When she’s declared healed enough to be allowed from the bed, she can barely walk, gripping tight to his forearms when the pain hits her, mangling her attempts at moving more than a few paces at a time. He supports her through the exercises Anders gives her to build up her strength again, quietly finds an excuse to leave her chambers when her frustration at her slow progress boils over into angry tears and wild sputtering from the lit candles. The nightmares shift with every passing day, until it is no longer the Arishok looming over her but a crowd of Templars, Meredith at their head, shouting down to the city. _Here is your Champion, brought to heel as she should be!_ Cruel fingers curling in dark hair cut short, yanking Amelie’s head back and revealing the **mark** on her forehead. Tranquil. Cut off from her magic and her very self and Fenris can’t breathe, it’s not possible, it would never happen, she would die before allowing Templars to catch her.

But it is a very real threat. Her _secret_ is out and everyone in the city knows the Arishok had nearly killed her. If Meredith wished it, the Templars could storm the estate and she would be helpless, unable to run when her magic is neutralised. It is a scenario that makes his hands shake when he reaches for her, even as he swears they will not touch her, that if he _must_ he will kill her himself to save her from the brand upon her forehead.  He doesn’t need to tell her of the new form his nightmares have taken, he can see the recognition clear in her eyes when he draws back from his lips pressing to unmarked skin. A common nightmare between them, no doubt.

But he takes her hands in his, when soft sighs of his name spill from her lips and he moves over her, breath turning to quick, sharp gasps and her legs drawing up tight to his sides, magic unfurling, _welcome_ and _soothing_ and tickling along the vines and whorls of lyrium etched into his skin, most intense above her head, where their hands are clasped tight together. Heat low in his belly and darting up his spine, sparks where his skin is in contact with hers, nipping at her shoulder, her throat, her mouth, stuttering out of rhythm when she peaks with a sharp cry of his name, muffling each moan after with a fierce kiss, thrusting twice more before he _breaks_ and it’s so close to painful, working his fingers free to snag in her hair as he drops his forehead to hers, her name barely a breath of sound and _Maker_ it’s too _much,_ he’s trembling so hard he can barely support his weight above her.

"Amelie…” Her exhale is his inhale, her free hand moving to tease sweat-slick hair back from his face, fingertips teasing along his ear before coming to rest cupped against his cheek, sweet smile on kiss-reddened lips. “Amelie, _I am yours_.”


	8. Chapter 8

He cannot help but outright stare at the sight before him, blinking three times in slow succession as his brain tries to process the information from his eyes. Varania laughs, low and amused, beside him before going to where Amelie is sitting on the sole surviving bench in the foyer, leaning back on one hand with the other raised high above her head and fingers splayed out and tense. No magic darts around her fingers, but looking up as she does reveals air shimmers around Donnic and Carver, partially hidden by his roof and _the hole there is smaller._

Quite suddenly he realises why his sister had insisted on such a lengthy lunch and perusal of the various stands for trinkets, ridiculously frilly dresses, and some choice items from Ferelden he will swear to the Maker’s side and back would prompt a blush even from _Isabela._ He glares at her, only worsening her laughter, but there is no sting of betrayal, not really. This is not a trap of any sort, only a ploy, and a welcome one at that. He had been meaning to fix the roof for months.

“You are supposed to be _resting.”_ He says when he reaches Amelie, crouching down in front of her to place a hand on her growing belly. Once he would have hesitated. A few months ago he would have trembled. But she has been persistent in encouraging a bond between he and the child cradled in the safety of her body and he has found himself powerless to resist contact for long. Especially after the discovery of the child’s movements and stubborn little heels digging out from Amelie at the most inopportune of moments. Varania excuses herself to unpack what perishables they had purchased at the market and the moment she is gone there are lips on his forehead and hands sliding into his hair, fingertips massaging along his scalp so easily that his ears fall in a lazy droop of contentment.

“I am resting. Look, I’m even sitting down! Okay, okay, Carver _did_ insist.”

“Of course he did. Have you eaten yet?”

“Yes, Orana came over with lunch. I’m fairly certain those two still have sandwiches stashed up on the roof with them.”

"And the little one?” There is no movement under his hands currently, a shame and yet he is quietly pleased for Amelie’s sake. He dislikes the discomfort the baby’s antics can cause her, but her smile says it all. She’s had peace for the morning. He levers up to kiss her, slow and sweet and drawing that same delighted sigh from her that typically makes him smile. “You should be resting.”

"I _am.”_

“Using your Force magic is not resting.”

“Fenris. I haven’t been exhausting myself, I promise.”

"It is still new to you, Amelie. _You_ were the one who explained how controlling it drains you. So again, I say, you should be resting.” Her determined frown crumbles only seconds later, replaced with one of resignation that has him chuckling. Always so dramatic.

"Okay, if I’m supposed to be off my feet and _not using magic_ , I have the perfect idea and you are coming with me. Will you two be okay on your own for a while?” The last is shouted to the two up above, and the noise stops as Carver’s head pops into view, tanned face framed by dark hair curling out of the short cut he’d gotten before joining the Templars.

"It’s not like you’re going to help much now that he’s back for you to make lovey-dovey eyes at. Bugger off and take your gross kisses with you.”

“Like you don’t do the same with _Merriiiiiiiiiiiiilll.”_ The only reply is outraged sputtering, and Amelie drags him from the foyer, and then the mansion itself, laughter clear and bright and soon he is chuckling with her, matching her brisk pace back to the Hawke Estate.

* * *

Her idea of relaxing, it turns out, is shoving him to a sprawl on her bed and settling beside him while griping that she can hardly see beyond the _football_ jutting from her stomach if she looks down. Her fingers dance over the brands, the soft kiss of her healing touch pulling light from them in flickers that don’t hurt. He should protest her use of a spell. The words are on the tip of his tongue. But then her magic finds the sore muscles from the fighting the previous night with more thrice-damned blood mages pouring into the streets from every corner and the protest dies at his lips with a low groan. She pours that soothing balm into him, the warmth fanning out through the network the lyrium makes of his body until he feels boneless and pliant and can barely remember how to lift his head from the pillow to look at her.

“Feel better?”

“Hmmmm. Much. My thanks.”

* * *

Later, when she is busy working her way through the endless swarm of letters and congratulatory notes from well-wishers across the city, he excuses himself to sneak back to the market, eyes landing again on the rocking chair he’d spotted, and to the litter of Mabari pups. _Soon._ When the child is born, he will return for one, one who will guard the little one as Shadow guards Amelie, fierce and loyal even when faced with Tal Vashoth and fleet-footed Rogues.


End file.
